


Day 3: Muster

by Crowsister



Series: FFxivWrite2020 [3]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Gen, Tumblr: FFXIVwrite2020, tfw ur professor goes off on a Way 2 Personal rant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-04
Updated: 2020-09-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:34:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26286568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crowsister/pseuds/Crowsister
Summary: Mahri's first day of being a private in Internal Affairs
Series: FFxivWrite2020 [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1907314
Kudos: 1
Collections: #FFxivWrite Final Fantasy 30 Day Writing Challenge - Complete Works





	Day 3: Muster

**Author's Note:**

> So, right off the bat, I wanna say that the canon here is in question: I have NO idea how the Maelstrom's Internal Affairs division works. I am bisexual, I am anxious, you can imagine the kind of stress I am under.
> 
> HOWEVER
> 
> This was fun! I tried my best and I think it's a readable piece. Is it good? I dunno! But I do like bits of this, definitely, and I hope y'all do too.

“Welcome to Day One of Internal Affairs training, privates! What goes on in this room stays within Internal Affairs, understood?”

“Aye, sir!”

Mahri stood stock still at attention as the thin roegadyn man in charge of them paced. Sergeant Haldgeyss Ganzhyllsyn was leaner than most roegadyn, could pass as a stockier elezen if it weren’t for the ears and coloration, and had a bark terrible as his bite, if his mannerisms thus far held any water. His accent was foreign rather than Limsan; maybe Sharlayan, maybe Ishgardian, or some bastard child of both. His skin was so pale that it was almost white, with the green only showing in certain lighting conditions. And his eyes were a glowing lupine yellow in both lamplight and sunlight. It was uncanny. He kept his white hair shorn short to his head and damn near hidden. Mahri could barely see it from under his helmet. He wore a bullwhip around his waist, but you could only really tell it as such if you caught sight of the handle; otherwise, it looked like a belt that supported his trousers and pistol.

“You all belong to your respective squadrons and levies,” he continued, “but you must remember, at the end of the day, that you are a double-sided sword. You cut the enemy, but you also cut corruption in our ranks. The problem you will all, inevitably, face is that none of the bloody idiots in your levy will remember that this is your duty unless you make them. Can anyone tell me how that _isn’t_ a problem?”

There was silence for a moment. Mahri slowly raised her hand.

“Private Mismatch, the floor is yours. Step forward.”

Mahri stepped forward, hands behind her back. “It isn’t a problem because more people reveal the truth around those they aren’t threatened by than those that they are, sir.”

Sergeant Ganzhyllsyn gave her a grin that was more bear trap than teeth. _“Perfect_ answer, Private Mismatch. Back in the duckling line with you.” Mahri stepped back, and he continued, “The history of the Maelstrom is that we come from pirates. Pirates, notoriously, are creatures that shoot first, ask later. While the general culture pretends that we are no longer pirates, but civilized folk, we must understand that there is a precarious balance. A plank to walk, if you would.” He held his hands out, acting like he was balancing on a wooden plank. “Too much pressure, and you get shot. Too little pressure, and nobody takes you seriously. This is, unfortunately, not something I can teach you all.”

“So, we’re going to be shot trying to figure it out,” a lalafell to Mahri’s left replied (Depan Virpan, her mind supplied). “Great.”

“Private Deadpan, the floor wasn’t open.” Sergeant Ganzhyllsyn acrobatically scooped up the lalafell with his boot, lifting him into the air with a kick before catching his arm. “Put your cynicism back in your pants; it doesn’t make you nearly as attractive as you think.” The sergeant plopped Private Virpan back into line. “You’ll figure it out. Or you won’t. It’s my job to arm you with tools, and it’s your job to use your judgment. Each of you got sorted in with me because frankly, you all should already have some of these tools.”

Mahri stood up straighter as he pointed at her. “Private Mismatch: lockpicking and physical infiltration.” He pointed to Private Virpan. “Private Deadpan: legalese, fluent in five languages, and excellent at navigation.” He pointed to the duskwight, who’d been thus far silent. “Private Cards: social infiltration and voice-acting.” Sergeant Ganzhyllsyn ended with the last of the line-up, a seeker. “Private Zoomies: fast feet, fast mouth, fast hands.”

He turned away from them to face the blackboard. “I will not lie to you, privates: this training circuit is _new._ Most of the old blood of Internal Affairs has claimed ‘connections’ to the Rogues or are good at legal matters or just have desk jobs. You lot have been placed here because there’re some of the Maelstrom that forgets itself.” He turned and looked at them. “We’re not secret police. But….neither are they the Immortal Flames, a ticking time bomb that only works so long as more money’s thrown at it Nor are they the Adders, because they should only have one face each, not two. They are _Maelstrom.”_ Sergeant Ganzhyllsyn looked them each in the eye. “What does that mean, for the lot of you?”

Private Zoomies spoke up. “Means honest work. ‘aven’t had th’ time to cultivate an ideal, sir.”

There was a pregnant pause. Sergeant Ganzhyllsyn took three long prowling steps until he stood in front of Private Zoomies. “Private Z’omar Tia…” The sergeant took off his helmet and put it on the private’s head. “...thank you for your honesty.” He looked at the rest of them. “Don’t mistake me for the hardass idiot instructor from Infantry that I’ve no doubts you’ve all met, no matter what face they wear. The only reasons I’ll rip into you all are evil acts. Mistakes, by nature, are never evil.” 

He sat on the desk at the head of the room. “If I seem a hardass, it’s because I’m tired of the same idiots who’ve trained you all to silence. I’m _exhausted_ of the chest-pounding, the cynicism, the romanticization of their own trauma.” Haldgeyss huffed. “Yes, Elstan, you have soldier’s heart. So do I. So does the civvie you buy your ridiculous triple-decker ham sandwich from. This world is violent; it _happens._ Just because you’ve been given an invisible scar doesn’t mean you can take it out on everyone around you, you wannabe Bloody Bill.” He looked at them all. “I bet you lot all have soldier’s heart. Don’t have the air of the energetic private who wants to be a big damn hero; despite what those Infantry idiots think, that’s a dying breed of folk.”

Mahri cleared her throat. “C-can I answer your question?”

“By all means, I opened the floor.” He gestured next to him. “Let’s break the line; the novelty of military formality’s worn its bloody welcome away.”

She inhaled slowly, stepping forward and sat next to him on the desk. She smoothed the skirt of her assigned uniform flat, swallowing the discomfort from wearing it to speak evenly. “The Maelstrom, to me, is a second chance.”

“Were you a pirate, Mismatch?”

“Bandit,” she answered. “My father...he made me terrorize people. I’ll carry that with me for the rest of my life. But...the Maelstrom is involved with helping people.”

“In theory,” Sergeant Ganzhyllsyn replied. “Theory, we at Internal Affairs, try to safeguard, best we can.” He leaned closer to her (not quite in her physical bubble, but close enough to whisper). “This place is a second chance for me too.” He immediately sat up straight again and he did it so quickly that Mahri considered if she hallucinated the moment of vulnerability. 

“Now, the rest of you lot, muster up the courage to give us an answer: what is the Maelstrom to you?”

**Author's Note:**

> Two notes to add clarity, now that you're down here:
> 
> 1\. "soldier's heart" is an older name for PTSD.  
> 2\. "Bloody Bill" is a pirate character from The Coral Island by RM Ballantyne. He kidnaps the narrator of the novel, Ralph, and ends up being mortally injured by some Polynesian locals in the big fight that sees Ralph freed. He spends his dying breath repenting his life as a pirate.


End file.
